


Seraphic Damnation

by mother_finch



Category: Person Of Interest - Fandom
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:49:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3637335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: These are some of the greatest fics I ever read, keep up the great work!!! Here's another prompt: Root and Shaw just saved a number, and they have to take the number to a safehouse. And Root being Root does her overt flirting with Shaw. However, the number turns out to be extremely homophobic and starts yelling and spewing hate towards Root, enough to catch her off guard. Cue a very very angry Shaw defending her girlfriend's honor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seraphic Damnation

"You ready?"

"Yeah, let’s go." Aiming their guns straight ahead, eyes trained and ears alert, Root Groves and Sameen Shaw start down a long, dimly lit hotel corridor. The lights flicker, briefly exposing grimy carpet and mud spattered walls. They continue down the hall, careful to tread silently on potentially squeaky floorboards, until they come to a stop before an exceptionally filthy door. Room 108.

"For drug dealers, you’d think they’d have a higher degree of living," Shaw breathes out, and Root can’t help but give a small smile. Getting a firmer hold on her second gun, Root nods, and Shaw angrily kicks in the door. Instantly, smoke billows from the hotel room, the rancid smell of methamphetamine rolling past them. They press themselves back to the dingy hall wall, steering clear of the smoke with hands over their mouths. Shaw looks past the door frame, but has no visual on Root through the thick white spewing from the room. She hears footsteps, and a moment later a man in a gas mask bursts from the room.

* * *

 

Bam, one shot and he falls to the ground with not so much as a grunt. Quickly, she rips the mask from his face, strapping it to her own head. Standing back up, she sees the smokey figure of someone else in a mask. She can just barely make out the glint of a knife. Come on come on, she taunts in her head, daring him to come closer. He does- boom- he falls. Coming into the doorway, Shaw strips him of his mask, tossing it in the direction of the last place she saw Root. Not hearing it hit the floor, she feels a small knot of worry untie itself. A second later, Root is at her side, breathing noisily through the mask.

The two stalk into the hotel room, guns drawn, and sweep the area. They come across three more armed men, but easily pick them off.

"So where’s this number of ours?" Shaw asks, words distorted from the mask. Root holsters her weapons, then looks around. With sudden purpose, she heads to a closed door at the far end of the room. Shaw follows, straining to see through the protective plastic in front of her eyes, and holds her gun at the door. In one swift motion, Root swings it open, and there is an instantaneous scream.

Looking down, Shaw sees a man. Hands bound behind his back, mouth gagged, feet tied to the sink pipes. His blue eyes are terrified, body radiating with fear, and there are deep bruises covering his arms and face. Root kneels at his side, serious but no longer immediately deadly, and pulls the gag from his mouth.

"Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me, _please!_  I’ll do it- I  _will_!- just _please_!” His voice is loud and strained with overwhelming hysteria. Root tilts her head to the side, her slightly kind look lost behind the gas mask.

"We’re not going to," she responds, then takes a knife from her boot. With quick precision, she cuts him loose, and he scrambles to a sitting position, backing into the corner like a frightened animal. He gropes behind him, then wraps his hand around a loose pipe.

"So much as pick it up and you’re dead." Shaw informs him flatly, and he sees the gun in her hand for the first time. He releases his grip instantly, putting both hands above his eyes. His mopey brown hair and unkempt beard are doused in scared sweat.

"Okay, okay," he responds shakily. Root stands, then gives him a hand. The three walk back into the hallway in silence, Shaw gripping his left arm, gun pointed at his shoulder with the other. Once away from all the smoke, Root pulls off her mask, shaking her hair free. Shaw can’t help but admire. Seeing her gaze, Root shoots her a sparkling smile, before looking over seriously at their number.

"You’re safe now," she tells him. He nods numbly. "We’re going to protect you."

______________\ If Your Number’s Up /_______________

"So, uh, you work for the government or something?" The man, George Henry, asks hesitantly. Shaw remains silent, eyes fixed on the dark road, but Root turns around to look at him in the back seat.

"We’re more free lance," she informs him, receiving an amused chortle from Shaw.

The man nods his head, licking his lips. “Are you taking me to law enforcement?” Root nods. “I didn’t have any part in that,” he assures her, eyes animated. “I  _don’t_ do drugs, I  _don’t_ make drugs, I have a wife and a son I haven’t seen in over a  _month_. They were holding me there, I swe-“

"We know," Root assures him. He sits back, his mind easing.

"Do you guys, uh, have a radio?" Root gives him a light smile, then turns the radio onto a rock station, letting the music carry itself softly to the back seat. Body facing forward once more, she sneaks a look at Shaw, eyes scanning her with interest. Tank top revealing toned arms, black pants and boots, pony tail ridden with havoc, the slight quirk of a smile on half of her face. Root ponders it, eyes flickering around Shaw’s face, until she finally leans her arm on the center consul to get closer.

"What’s the smile for, Sam?" she asks, taking Shaw off guard; however, she reveals nothing but a minuscule shift in her eyes.

"Glad today was pretty simple. We can head home, what, three hours early?" Root smiles, hearing the small traces of satisfaction in Shaw’s voice. A record bust, a meth lab down, and a safe number.  _And all before nine p.m_.

"Yeah," Root agrees, eyes intense, "gives us plenty of time to  _ourselves_.” Shaw rolls her eyes at Root’s tone, but there is a smile on her face.

"Is that  _so_ , Root?” she asks with good humor. Root smirks, enjoying herself. She brings her fingers over, taking a piece of Shaw’s hair, and watches it dance between them. She twirls it, curls it around her finger. “Root…” Shaw says cautiously, and Root feels butterflies escape their cage at the tone in Shaw’s voice.

"Yes, Sweetie?" Her voice is low, but innocent.

"I’m driving." With an insuppressible smirk, Root takes her hand back, and leans away slightly. From behind her, she hears miffed grumbles, but ignores them with little interest. They pass under a street light, and Root catches the reflection from the two gas masks beside Shaw on the driver’s seat.

"You brought  _these_  with you?” Root asks, slipping her hand along Shaw’s side to take them. She turns them around in her hands, then places them in her lap.

"Yeah, never know when we might need them." At Root’s uncharacteristic silence, Shaw gives her a quick glance, then does a double take. Her eyes are intense, and a suggestive smile plays on her face in the dark. Shaw shakes her head, mouth slightly agape with astonishment. Finally, she gives a stunned laugh, then falls serious. "That’s  _sick_  Root,” as she says it, her mouth turns up in a smile. She gives Root a playful push with her hand, then drops it to rest against the center consul. Root slides her own hand across, and envelops Shaw’s. From the back seat, George coughs with annoyance.

"Can you stop that now?" He asks, an authority in his voice. Root, brow furrowed in confusion, turns her face to look at him with one eye.

"Stop what?"

"That- that weird, _queer_  foreplay thing the two of you are doing.” At the words, Shaw’s muscles tense, and Root feels the tightening of Shaw’s hand on hers.

” _Excuse_ me?”

He gives her a condescending look. “You  _can’t_  tell me what you’re doing isn’t sickening.” His face drops, seeing her serious face. He watches how their hands still stay together. “Oh,  _God_ , you’re serious?” His voice is lathered in spite and repulsion. “That’s  _disgusting_.”

"I don’t think you have any say in the matter," Root replies frostily, voice barely remaining level. He doesn’t seem to care.

"Didn’t you-  _either_ of you- ever go to  _church?_ " he asks, baffled. Neither woman speaks. He tilts his head up, a smile of ridicule on his face. "I see, no one ever taught you how to act like a human  _being_.”

"A human-" Root stops, so overcome with blind rage her mouth scrunches shut.

"Parents not care or something?" he continues, but doesn’t pause for them to stops. "Apparently not. Real parents would’ve raised their kids better."

"They have  _nothing_  to do with this,” Root spits, a sting in her chest.  _Why do his words bite?_ It’s mostly anger, but something in his severity doesn’t sit right.

"I think they have  _everything_  to do with this,” he retorts, voice rising. “They should be  _ashamed_  of you. They should be ashamed of  _themselves_.”

"That’s enough." Root’s voice is a growl, lips drawing back in a sneer.

"No, it’s not." he spits. "You helped me out back there, so let me help you. The last thing I want is for the two people who saved my life to rot in Hell."

"What do you-"

"It’s  _going_  to happen!” He shrieks. “You’re going to Hell! Homosexuality is a  _perversion_! A  _sin_! You’re repulsive, you’re- you’re a  _disgrace_! A blasphemous damnation.” George’s words are sharp like daggers. “You need God.”

"I  _have_  a God,” Root spits back deadly. “And She doesn’t care.”

” _She?_ " He exclaims with a sick expression on his face. "I knew you gay types were sick in the head, but I didn’t know you worshiped a di-"

Shaw slams on the breaks, and the tires screech on the black asphalt. George, not wearing his seat belt, slams forcefully into the back of her seat, nose instantly gushing blood. Letting go of Root’s hand, Shaw whips around in her chair, grabbing Geoge’s shirt front in her fist to make him look her in the eye. He’s disoriented from the hard stop and blood drips onto Shaw’s hand. Finally, his eyes stop rolling; he comes to.

In a low, deadly voice, Shaw says, “I’m real tired of what you have to say.” Suddenly, his spark comes back.

"Don’t  _touch_  me,” he shouts in her face. She grips his collar harder. “Let go of me you lesbian  _freak_!” Shaw shakes him angrily, and he spits blood in her face. Taking her free hand, she grabs his nose, slowly pushing it upward. He groans in agony. “You stupid fucking gay  _perversion_ ,” he yells between clenched teeth.

"You really don’t give up, do you?" She asks dangerously, pushing on his nose harder. His eyes start to water.

"I was. Just. Helping." He replies in pain. "But I can see. It’s. Too late. For you. Both."

"Oh  _yeah_?” Shaw says, mock interest in her voice. Her eyes narrow, and she lets go of his nose, wiping the blood on his shirt’s shoulder. “And why’s that?”

Brewing with an unnatural anger, breath fast and feverish, he spits, “God  _hates_ you.”

” _Really.._ " Shaw says, yanking his shirt front. Her eyes ponder for a moment, then come back to his, black as night. "He tell you that Himself?"

Silence.

"Uh-huh," Shaw concludes with a nod. "That’s what I thought. Now," Shaw reaches to her side, pulling out her gun, then brings it close to George’s chest. She faces him fully. Root watches, frozen with mortification. "I think you should really leave her alone," she continues, putting the barrel of the gun on his shirt. He flinches slightly. "Leave  _all_  of it alone.” Her gun snakes slowly up, coming to his shoulder. “Because,  _well,_ " the gun comes to his jugular, the cold metal bringing goosebumps to his skin. "we don’t bother you, do we? I couldn’t care  _less_  you have a wife, or a son, or maybe a dog. Do you have a  _dog_ , George?” He swallows hard, then begins to open his mouth in response. “Don’t answer that, George,” Shaw informs him, a scary conversational air creeping into her voice as the gun comes to his jaw line. “Like I said:  _don’t_  care. I couldn’t give half a  _shit_  about you, honestly. Whether you live…  _die_ …” The gun finally comes to a stop under his chin. “If it were up to me? It would probably be the latter. I’d shoot you right  _here_ ,” she clicks off the safety and he jumps, “and not ever feel a thing.” He swallows again, and Shaw can feel the terrified tremble in his body. She gives him a wicked smile. “ _However,_  that isn’t up to me.” She stows the gun away and shoves him back into his seat. He presses himself back, eyes murderous. “I have orders to take you to a safe house. But, hold on…” she looks at Root in faux thought. “They didn’t tell us whether we bring _him_  or his  _body_.” He brings in a terrified gasp. “Eh,” Shaw concludes, revving the engine. “I guess we’ll give him this one. He didn’t know any better.” Hitting the gas pedal, they are off once more.

From the back, George holds his nose tenderly. “Stupid _bitch_ ,” he mutters. They swerve, and a moment later, Shaw has a gun pointed at him, eyes watching him through the rear view mirror.

"Say something?" she asks. He seethes.

” _No._ ”

"That’s what I thought." The gun goes off, and he screams, bringing his hands to his knee cap. "Oops, hit a bump." She places the gun down, then looks over at the still frozen Root.

"You okay?"

She nods. “Not sure whether to be frightened or proud.” Shaw laughs.

"Of who,  _me_?” Root nods again, and Shaw laughs harder. “How about both.” She takes Root’s hand, rolling her thumb over Root’s knuckles. She leaves her hand in Root’s lap, and Root subconsciously draws circles with her fingers along the back of Shaw’s hand. Finally, they reach the safe house.

________________\ We’ll Find You /_______________

"What the hell happened to  _him?_ " Lionel asks with dismay, taking in the bloody back seat and spasm of a number.

"There was a complication," Shaw replies with a smirk.

"She  _shot_  me!” George screams from the back seat, cradling his leg.

"Well," John replies, walking around the car to the other three. He looks to George. "If she shot you, that means you really deserved it."

His eyes are daggers as Fusco pulls him from the car, allowing their number to lean on his shoulder for support.

"I was trying to  _show_  them!” He exclaims indignantly. John gives a humored smirk.

"Show them what?" He asks.

"Show them what’s  _wrong_  with them!”

John looks over to Root and Shaw. He looks at Shaw’s arm strewn casually around Root’s waist; Root’s head resting on the top of Shaw’s head. They watch George- Root with eyes that couldn’t quite understand the man, Shaw’s with full throttled loathing. John looks back to their number and shrugs. “I don’t see anything wrong with them. You, Lionel?”

Fusco shakes his head. “Nah. Just your average nut job, gun-happy couple.” Root smiles at his words. “Now come on, George, we gotta get you inside. Maybe stop that bleeding, huh?” They start to walk, but George just shakes his head angrily.

"God  _help_  me,” he spits. “I’m surrounded by a clan of faggo-“

” _Hey_!” Fusco shouts, smacking George roughly on the back of his head. George turns to him, murder in his eyes once more. Lionel is unfazed, just looks at him with a condescending finger. “I don’t like your attitude. Now  _walk_.” With that, he pushes him forward; George stumbles with pain, no support for his now useless right leg. Walking behind him, Lionel offers no help to the number, just watches as he gruelingly makes it to the safe house’s banister.

"We’ve got it from here," John tells the two, turning back to look at them. Shaw nods. He walks towards the house, slowing to a stop beside Lionel as they watch George stagger up the front stairs. With a sigh, Root pulls away from Shaw and starts to open the passenger side door. Shaw puts a hand on the window to stop her.

"I know that look, Root," Shaw says, pressing the door all the way closed. "What’s on your mind." Root looks at her a minute.

"How many people are like that?" She asks.

Shaw shrugs. “Out of the  _world?_  Probably a lot. Out of the people who  _matter?_  None.” Root gives her a grateful smile, and Shaw takes her hand from the car door. “Want to grab something to eat?” she asks, pulling the driver side door open. “It’s only nine thirty, I’m sure we can grab something.

"Sure," Root replies, entering the vehicle. Shaw turns the key, and her car roars to life. Putting it in drive, she turns out of the small cottage’s driveway, and heads back to the street.

"Sameen?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you." Shaw shoots a quick look Root’s way and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> I literally had to look up things to say for this. I’ve gotten my own dose of such things from school and things on the news (which I used as well). But, let me tell you some of the articles I pulled up on ‘anti-gay’ parties was absolutely revolting. I wanted to be able to sound as homophobic as possible for George Henry, but it was awful. Reading through the things people say- so much more than just the things kids in my school say- it was sickening. I felt sick. And what makes me feel worse, is that what I wrote down wasn’t even half of it. There is so much more vulgar hate out there; unspeakable loathing for no reason other than personal preference. I really can’t understand people some times, especially ignorant people. But, I digress. Hope no offense was taken from this, but I have one last thing to say: Don’t be George Henry or I will beat cho homophobic ass. Okay? Okay. Love you guys!!!!!


End file.
